


Ain't Got No, I Got Life

by SentientAbyss



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Imperialism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 20:53:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6129742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SentientAbyss/pseuds/SentientAbyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cuba is quiet. Cuba is a good boy. Obedient. Until one day he isn’t.<br/>Cuba is the nation with the highest literacy rate in the world, and the most doctors working abroad in the global south. He also has the longest-standing embargo in history being levelled against him by America. This is the story of how Cuba overthrew imperialism to become a nation, and everything that happened since.</p>
<p>TW for sexual violence, rape, implied csa, trauma</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't Got No, I Got Life

**Chapter 1: Obedience**

**Spain**  
The first thing Cuba learns to be is quiet. It doesn’t take a great mind to know what happens to colonies who get too uppity—and Cuba is a great mind. Intuitive, sensitive, good at retaining and applying every scrap of knowledge he collects. A very smart child. He sees what happens to his siblings and cousins when they make a scene. He sees the glint in Spain’s eye when he looks upon the Americas. When Spain carves silence out of Guanahatabey, Ciboney, and Taíno, Cuba bows his little head, looks at the earth, speaks only when spoken to.

  
“Oh, Juana?(2) He’s a good boy. Obedient,” Spain says when asked. He always seems a bit bemused where Cuba is concerned, as if he has forgotten his existence. Spain stops by occasionally, glances at Cuba appraisingly, and then goes on his way.

  
This goes on for several hundred years. Cuba keeps to himself. Fear is a powerful motivator.

  
Then Haiti fights for her freedom, and everything changes. She is not Spain’s colony: it was France who kept her back bowed, worked her in the fields until the bone broke through her fingers; slashed her back open in rivulets. It is France she fights. But without Haiti to exploit, France can no longer provide the sugar that the other European nations desire. Cuba has sugar. Within weeks, Spain is at his door.

  
“Oh Cuba, how you’ve grown.”

  
Spain is smiling. Cuba tries to smile in return, but there is something about the slash of Spain’s lips, the glint of teeth, that makes Cuba’s mouth tremble and collapse. When Spain asks to come into his house, Cuba admits him without a sound, knowing it’s not really a question, that he doesn’t really have a choice. From then on, Spain comes by often. Sits Cuba down opposite him and asks about his day. Shows Cuba how to fry tostones. Plays his fingers through Cuba’s hair, muttering about the texture. Makes Cuba lie beside him in bed, bodies pressed a little too close—

  
Cuba is one of the last to overthrow colonial rule by Spain. Cuba knows how to be quiet. He knows how to lie still. The options are fight, flight, or freeze, and there is nowhere to run, no strength to kick, scratch, punch, bite, scream. He tries once, in 1868: keeps it up for ten years. Spain makes him pay for that, teaches Cuba exactly why Spain owns so much world. After that, Cuba doesn’t fight anymore.

  
Until one day he does.

  
In 1895, Cuba has had enough. He is older now—his body that of a teenager, his eyes witness to centuries. Whatever Spain will do, whatever happens next, whatever the consequences, Cuba is done with quiet.

  
_Let Spain bring a massacre; let him kill the revolutionaries; let him burn every stick of sugarcane in every field. There will still be freedom—_

  
When America joins the fray three years later, Cuba is elated. Here is a nation who does revolution like a profession. He sees what he wants and he takes it. Clever, strong, dashing with his flaxen hair and bright blue eyes. Everything about him is bright: sometimes Cuba can barely look at him—feels that his eyes will be scalded. Once America joins Cuba, the war ends quickly. By December of that year, America and Spain are in Paris signing a treaty: America is declared the victor and the war is named the American-Spanish War. Cuba tries not to let that bother him. After all, who cares about who owns a war? He wants to own himself.

  
“What’s the hurry?” America asks. “You know, it takes a lot to be a nation. You can’t learn all that just from being a colony. It’s better to wait. Better if I help you out a little.”

  
Cuba isn’t entirely sure about that, but he doesn’t argue. After all, America has a point: Cuba has seen nations fall into bloodshed in the aftermath of independence. And Spain is still out there: America may have beaten him for now, but Cuba can hardly boast military prowess. Without America’s support, it would be so easy for Spain to reconquer him, and that would be—

  
_No. Never again. No. No._

  
So America sets up bases on the island, and visits Cuba often. With America’s help, Cuba builds a bigger house with great wide windows that let the light stream in on the gleaming wooden floors and the lavish furniture. America buys Cuba a phonograph, a piano, a copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn to sit on his dresser. America’s favourite book.

  
“It’s a real exciting book,” America explains, animated. “A boy’s own adventure but more grown up!”

  
Cuba gets through the first third before giving up. It’s not that he can’t understand its contents; rather, it makes him angry and sick in a way he can’t quite name. Like biting into a fruit and finding it full of worms. Something about Jim. It makes Cuba conscious of his dark skin. Conscious of the way America looks at him—the way he calls Cuba “boy” and ruffles his hair without asking first. The way he seems to always stand just a little too close.

 

**America**  
America is kind at first. Oh, he doesn’t let Cuba get too big, but Cuba knows that without America, things would be hard. He sees the way the other Latin nations struggle, and he knows to be, or at least to seem, grateful.

  
America is kind at first. Until one day he isn’t.

  
At America’s behest, Cuba always keeps rum in the kitchen cabinet. Cuba doesn’t drink much himself, but America likes to come to his house to unwind.  
“It’s relaxing,” he explains. “Being here. Being on island time.” Cuba isn’t sure what that means. Certainly, Cuba does not relax: he’s too smart for that—too tense and too aware. Still, America wants to be relaxed, so when he comes knocking, Cuba makes sure to smile, to move slowly, to be calm and polite and sympathetic. America always drinks, asks Cuba for a massage, and complains about world affairs.

  
_Another cabinet meeting. Another war. Another treaty. God Cuba, you’re so lucky not to be on your own. God Cuba, being a nation without guidance is exhausting._

Cuba is used to this routine. It’s not difficult to play along, and it makes America happy. So Cuba doesn’t immediately sense the difference, the danger, when America comes by for a drink, growling about prohibition and I didn’t fight a war for this. When America mutters some indecipherable things about Suffragettes and The Race Problem, Cuba’s left hand trembles and his mouth tenses, but he suppresses these involuntary reactions quickly. It isn’t his problem. Keeping America happy is his problem.

  
America drinks more than usual that night. He turns to where Cuba stands behind him, rubbing America’s shoulders, and says “you don’t give me trouble.” His gaze is uncomfortable: he won’t look away, and there’s something there—something Cuba could never identify before. It looks like hunger.

  
Cuba is quiet. Cuba is a good boy. Obedient. So when America reaches up, grabs his chin, and pulls him into a kiss, Cuba doesn’t fight. Doesn’t fight when America leads him to the bedroom. Doesn’t fight when America climbs on top of him. Fight, flight, or freeze. Cuba knows this game. Knows how to lie still. Maybe he cries, maybe he doesn’t. Certainly, he doesn’t scream, kick, bite.

  
Afterward, America pulls Cuba against his chest and holds him close. Kisses his throat. Plays his fingers through his hair. America falls asleep quickly: mostly alcohol, partially the certainty, the comfort of his nature. America is strong, and strength doesn’t worry about sleeping. Cuba lies there, absolutely still, breathing as shallowly as he can manage. Trying to disappear. Exist only in himself. In the morning, America stretches slowly, runs his fingers through his unruly blond hair, and moans about his hangover.

  
“Cuba,” he says, “my head is pounding. Can you go make me something to eat?”

  
Cuba dresses in silence. His head is in fog and his chest feels hollow. It takes him two tries to do the buttons of his shirt up right. It takes him four matches to light the stove. When he goes to crack eggs into the oil in the pan, the first egg breaks unevenly, shells falling in with the yolk and the white. Cuba fishes the shells out numbly with a fork, decides that the eggs will have to be scrambled, and breaks the second one more carefully. Cuba manages the rest of the breakfast alright. Spills the eggs onto a plate. Fries bread in the remaining oils in the pan. Brews coffee with a dash of milk.

  
He brings the breakfast to where America is sprawled in Cuba’s bed. He sits on the corner of the bed, his legs tight against each other, shoulders hunched, lips taut. America eats between groans, and doesn’t ask why Cuba isn’t eating too. When he leaves, Cuba walks him to the door. Then Cuba returns to the bedroom and sits on the corner of the bed for a long time. Silent. Cuba knows how to be quiet. How to shatter without spilling. How to swallow whatever he is told to swallow until all the hurt is stored inside his stomach. He takes a shower. Sleeps on the couch.

  
From then on, America’s visits grow more frequent. He’s gentle enough at first. Enough that Cuba can close his eyes and build a different place, a different self, a—  
Something strikes his face, jolting him conscious. America, hand raised.

  
“Stop lying there like a fucking corpse. Do something.”

  
Cuba lashes out instinctively. Kicks his legs out and jolts his upper body forward, head connecting with the cartilage of America’s nose with a satisfying crunch. It feels good to fight. Blood drips down America’s face, catching in his mouth, staining his even white teeth. His teeth—

  
America is smiling. Face wild with pain and pleasure. He shoves Cuba down into the bed, calls him a little bitch, tells him he’ll pay for that, and Cuba knows this is exactly what he wanted. America is strong. A nation of his strength is always looking for a fight. So Cuba gives him one. Every time. Screaming, swearing, struggling, as if any of it matters. As if any of it can save him.

\--

Authors Notes:  
1\. The title of the story, "Ain't Got No, I Got Life" is a reference to Nina Simone's rendition of that song. You can listen to that here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5jI9I03q8E 2. Juana was the name Columbus initially imposed on the island that comprises mainland Cuba.

I am sorry for the brutality of this first chapter. I know that it is awful to read for many reasons, and I assure you that as someone writing at least part of this from personal experience, it was awful to write. I promise that things will improve for Cuba as the narrative progresses.

When I was fourteen, everyone in my friend group got passionately into Hetalia. I was among them. We gave each other nation names and cosplayed at school. When my mother was seventeen, and attempting to get immigration status to Canada from Cameroon, she vowed that she would name her first child Canada. Fortunately, by the time I was born ten years later, she had changed her mind about that! Still, this story earned me the position of "Canada" in my friend group, which was a great honour at the time, given that we were all Canadians! In cosplaying Canada, I found a lot of joy, but it was also my first direct exposure to racism. For a mixed girl, I have very light skin and loose hair, so I was not used to being degraded for my physical appearance, up until the moment I started donning a blonde wig to cosplay my nation. When I was in costume, people began to make comments about the way my skin looked against the wig--they told me I was too dark, that I "REALLY couldn't pull of blonde," that I looked ridiculous. As a result, I became very self-conscious of my appearance, and started hiding from the sun, determined to be light enough to cosplay Canada for an upcoming convention.

The reactions of white friends and Hetalia fans made me a lot less comfortable in myself, but they also made me reexamine the manga I loved more closely. I became very frustrated that Cuba, then the only speaking character with dark brown skin and locs, was given so little attention. Reading fanfiction on FF.Net, I was repeatedly confronted with portrayals of Cuba that made him out to be abusive, brutish, dumb, and ultimately unimportant and undeveloped as a character. Despite not being Cuban, I found myself very personally impacted by this. I just wanted one person to bother showing him in a more complex and understanding light. It was because of this portrayal that I began researching Cuban history, which became my first education in imperialism--a topic that is very important to me now, as a person who is part Cameroonian, and just in general as a human being with empathy! I just wanted to see Cuba's history depicted within the Hetalia universe, whether by the creator or by fans! Over the years, I fell out of the Hetalia fandom a little, but the idea still remained in my mind. And so, today, I decided to make it a reality. This story will have several chapters, focusing on Cuban history through the lens of the Hetalia characters and leading up to the present.

Because of the context I am writing, several nations, most notably America and Spain, will be portrayed in a very negative light. That does not mean that I believe those nations to be irredeemable or evil, but I also don't want to diminish the harm they, like most nations, have caused historically. I promise that no nation featured in this narrative will be consistently portrayed as innocent or free of fault. There is no innocent nation in the history of the world, although some have caused more lasting harm through white supremacy and colonialism. I do not think that America or Spain or any other nations who might be portrayed negatively in this story are inherently bad, and I love stories that portray their sweetness and charm! This is just one story out of many thousands of stories, and not of more weight than any other.


End file.
